Inside, there were no customers and thankfully no sign of Madge.
‘I won’t be a jiffy,’ Bunny said. ‘Take a seat.’ She motioned towards a stool situated beside the counter, then disappeared through a bead curtain behind the till.
Morton sat down transfixed, wondering how on earth anyone made a living by selling such strange wares. Whatever he thought, she was evidently doing well for herself; behind the counter was an award for the Old Town Independent Retailer of the Year 2014. Morton cast his eyes over a range of old flags that hung limply from the ceiling above his head.
‘Do you like my little flag collection?’ Bunny beamed, thrusting a mug of peppermint tea at him. Reaching up, she straightened one of the flags, which was an old Stars and Stripes. ‘This is a replica of the America Ground flag—do you like it?’
‘A replica?’ Morton said. ‘It’s very good.’
‘Indeed,’ she said.
‘Do you mind if I take a picture of it?’
‘By all means—I’d be delighted!’ Bunny exclaimed.
Morton pulled out his phone and took a close-up of the flag, then a wider view. ‘Thanks.’
Bunny let go of the flag and sat down, her bracelets rattling as she placed her hands down on the counter. ‘So, where are we at—are we on track for the auction next week?’ she asked.
Morton sipped the tea and tried not to wince. He saw no point in drinking it: it tasted of gardens and contained no caffeine. He set the mug down and began to narrate through the Lovekin Case so far, omitting all references to the indentures and his escapade with the hooligans in the barn. He ended by telling her of this morning’s research and subsequent visit to Shepherd Street.
‘So they actually took the place apart and moved it along the road?’ Bunny asked incredulously. ‘How extraordinary.’
‘Yes, so I was told.’
‘Fascinating! Well, good on them, that’s what I say! They sound a lovely family, those Lovekin girls. You will find out more about what happened to them, won’t you?’
‘Well that’s kind of why I’m here—how much more do you want me to do?’
Bunny raised her hands into the air. ‘Everything! Never mind the ruddy auction, you’ve got me desperate—desperate to know more about this family! And what about the awful business of the murder? Are you any closer to finding out who killed the poor thing?’
‘If only it were that simple,’ Morton answered. ‘At the moment I’m none the wiser. I need to do more research into Eliza’s early life—I think that’s where the answer might lie.’
Bunny shook her head theatrically. ‘I just don’t understand why anyone would want to kill her. Could it have been something to do with those land document things?’
‘It’s possible, yes. It would really help me, Bunny, if you could remember where you bought the painting.’
Bunny exhaled noisily and pulled a face that said she had absolutely no idea. ‘Morton, it could have been any of those fabulous stalls. If I’d known then what I know now, then of course I would have paid much closer attention! Besides which, they’re all dealers and buyers themselves—heaven only knows where they would have got it from.’
Morton nodded absentmindedly as the door clattered open behind him and a large group of pensioners began to throng through the door.
‘I’d better leave you to it,’ Morton said, glad for an excuse to leave.
‘Oh, you haven’t finished your tea,’ Bunny squealed, leaping up from her stool.
Morton smiled and downed the drink, inwardly shuddering. ‘Lovely, thank you. I’ll be in touch.’
‘Only with good news, darling!’ she called after him, as she approached the gaggle of old ladies with a histrionic welcome.
Morton turned and smiled as he gratefully stepped out of the shop. George Street was now bustling with lunchtime trade and he was tempted to find a café and get something—preferably appetising and caffeinated—to take away the awful taste in his mouth, but he opted instead to head straight home. Now that he had pulled the Lovekin family into the period of civil registration and the census, there was a great deal that he could achieve in the comfort of his own study.
Morton had dropped the two indentures off at Jonathan Greenwood’s house on his way home. Somewhere between Hastings and Rye, he had mercifully managed to shake off the white Range Rover that had been tailing him all day. Not that they were bothering him particularly—it just served as a constant reminder that the clock was ticking on a task that he now considered virtually impossible.
He closed the front door, placed his bag down at the foot of the stairs and headed into the kitchen to make a coffee and some lunch.
He carried the kettle over to the sink and filled it with water, checking his emails on his mobile as he did so. One new message.
He switched on the kettle as the email downloaded. He gaped at the sender’s name: Roy Dyche.
Morton continued to stare at his phone, unable to open the message, knowing that it was a pivotal moment in his family history journey. This man held the only known key to unlocking the door that led to his biological father.
The kettle began to whistle furiously as it neared boiling point, yet above that Morton heard a light tapping sound coming from the lounge. The house was old and seemed to continuously creak and groan, but there was nothing to Morton’s knowledge in the lounge that could create the rhythmical sound that was now emanating from there.
A final growl from the kettle and it switched itself off.
The tapping continued.
Morton set down his phone and crept into the hallway. His heart began to beat faster and he held
